Docherty (35 page)

Or Jock Finlay was counting the number of blokes’ heels he could click in the course of a dance. Or the three of them were agreeing to pick partners only from a back-view, and see who came out best. Or Conn was playing the eye-game with every girl within range, chalking up victories against defeats.

The dance-hall was a factory for sensations. Conn loved to go there and let himself be ambushed by whatever happened. Situations kept breaking over him with visionary suddenness. A girl with black flecks in her eyes, like sedge below the surface of a lake. The soft flesh of a girl’s back rippling under his hand as she moved. The smell of them was infinitely diverse. Everything was so various that at times it seemed to him that he could happily spend the rest of his life moving among dim noisy rooms like these, being accosted by sensations, dallying with touches, contemplating eyes.

His enjoyment of it all made him understand Angus a little better, brought them nearer. Not that they were much together, but they were caught in intersecting orbits. Now Conn saw how Angus, so often out of place at home, wore this context like something made to measure. Here he looked so relaxed and yet alert, his passing ruffling the attention of others slightly, his eyes assessing both the men and the women.

Once Conn watched him in deep conversation with a girl. It looked very serious. She was talking at him desperately, a hand touching his jacket. Angus leaned against a wall, his hand resting flat on his head. His eyes moved steadily among the people dancing past. When he answered her, his face didn’t change and he spoke evenly, measuredly, saying something with a shake of the head that nothing was going to change. It occurred to Conn that it looked like trouble which they would eventually hear of in the house. But whatever extensions there might be of this situation seemed to him inevitably irrelevant. What struck him was just the poignancy of that scene, the pity that it should have to mean more than itself, the two of them beautifully preoccupied, with the music round them, the girl’s suffused, delicate face making Conn envious of his brother, Angus leant there electric with health.

Moments like those admitted Conn to Angus’s sense of the importance of yourself. Politics, history, strikes seemed marginal pastimes. What were they supposed to be all about? Conn was too busy prospecting himself. For him real problems were things like how to copulate standing up – ‘the gentle art of the knee-shaker’ Bert called it. He was obsessed by the physical difficulties that broke in upon his dream-like experiences with girls, the cold awakenings into bleak fact that were like an anchorite finding his knees chafed at the end of a religious ecstasy. And always haunting him was the dark underside of rumour, the apocrypha of sexual horror. Who could care about the state of the nation when he might have galloping syphilis?

Looming larger and larger in his life was the subculture he and his friends were evolving among them – Jock Finlay, who got washed and cleaned every evening so that he could be out early looking for a fight; Bert Crawford, much of whose conversation was concerned with refining his sense of the ideal setup with a married woman. Conn made up the third of a triumvirate that was secretly at work realigning the priorities of the world.

Only sometimes, coming home from an evening left smouldering behind them like a pillaged city, he would think guiltily of his mother and Mick – together in the house. Like the legless man who sat at John Finnie Street corner and to whom he sometimes gave a tanner, they spoiled his pleasure. And you couldn’t buy them off with a sixpence.

4

‘Ah’ll awa’ doon then,’ Kathleen said, and didn’t move.

She stood in the middle of the floor, twisting a button of her coat. Jenny, on her knees beside the fire, averted her face from the heat as she brushed the hearth. Finished, she heaved herself up and sat in the fireside chair, staring into the warmth. She was becoming more addicted to her ‘wee rests’, like someone acquiring a taste for old age.

‘Ah’ve left Jack in himsel’ wi’ the weans.’ Kathleen seemed trying to justify her leaving, though nobody was arguing. ‘He’ll be grey in the heid by the time Ah get back.’

Old Conn was still asleep in his rocking-chair. Jenny had already eased the clay pipe from his fingers, the bowl still warm, and put it on the mantelpiece. Mick, seated at the window with a book on the table, nursed the stump of his arm. Jenny’s breathing settled itself and her flushing subsided.

‘Ah suppose Ah better get doon, then,’ Kathleen said.

Reluctantly, as if she still hadn’t drunk enough of its strength, Jenny took her eyes from the fire and looked at Kathleen.

‘Hoo is he, then?’ she asked, not because she wanted an answer but because she knew that Kathleen needed the question.

‘Whit? Jack? He could be worse.’

‘He disny lift his hand tae ye?’

‘Naw. No’ noo.’

‘It’s a thing yer feyther’s never done tae me in his life.’

‘Where is he the nicht?’

‘Jist oot.’

They looked at each other, a deep inarticulacy of childbirth shared, men coming home drunk, an experience branded on their hands in callouses, a message whose meaning was that it couldn’t be expressed. The words were substitutes.

‘So ye’re managin’ a’ richt,’ Jenny said.

‘He’s workin’ still. That’s a lot.’

‘Aye.’

‘He’s awfu’ restless, though.’

‘They’re a’ restless. The hale world’s restless.’

‘If he strikes, Ah don’t ken hoo we’re gonny leeve.’

‘A day at a time. A day at a time. It’s hoo we’ve always leeved.’

‘It canny go oan.’

‘It never could go oan. But it always his.’

Jenny watched the fire. The clock grew dominant. Old Conn’s mouth sagged: a well that was running dry. Mick rocked gently over his book. Mother and daughter were a meeting in void, a brackish oasis. Future was past and past was future – nothing more to happen.

‘Ah’ll get awa,’ mither.’

‘Bring the weans up soon, hen.’

‘So Ah wull. Goodnight, Mick.’

‘Night.’

Old Conn stirred, gulped, subsided. Jenny watched Kathleen age towards the door. The room clammed on itself. With Kathleen gone, Jenny saw her. Ah, she was older. She was too old. Jenny remembered a station somewhere and Kathleen beside her, talking, raising a hand to her head and the finger seemed to point out the lines on her brow. In the instant Kathleen had changed from being a daughter to an event, something Jenny was helpless to assist. She could no longer remember where and when it had been. But that station stayed with her, not as a place but as a fact.

It had been deserted, overgrown. It was, she wondered to realise, where they all were now. No trains stopped here. Yet they went on waiting. Kathleen was right. It couldn’t go on. But it went on.

‘Look at them,’ Mick said. ‘Wid ye luk at them.’

Jenny raised her eyes to him. He was looking through the window across the corner, shaking his head.

‘They’re playin’ at fitba’ wi’ a fag packet.’

She heard the bitterness in his voice and she put her silence to it like a salve. Poor Mick, poor Mick, and he would have been angry if she’d voiced what she felt. But she had watched him trying to put himself together again, sore piece by piece. He dreamed a lot. His angers were often wilful, unrelated to anything around him. Once, sitting at the fire, he had said simply, ‘Ah ance shot a man that wis caught oan the wire. Ah wonder who he wis.’

Mick sat very still, a strange mood on him. He sensed himself that his anger was displaced, belonged somewhere else. But he couldn’t help himself. These days his past was delivered to him piecemeal, like anonymous letters. He was caught in his own escape-hatch: the only way to survive some of his experience had been to deny it and now it would express itself in a kind of cipher. His anger grew.

‘Luk at them! Big grown men. Like wee lassies playin’ at peevers.’

‘They’re daein’ nae herm, Mick.’

‘Are they no’? They’d make ye sick. They’ll dae onythin’ but think.’

‘Can ye blame them?’

‘That’s Gibby scored a goal. Listen tae them! Is that no’ pathetic?’

‘They’re guid men,’ Jenny said simply.

‘Ach, mither. Why dae ye only see whit you want tae see?’

‘Naw, son. You’re maybe nearer tae daein’ that than me. When Ah luk oot that windy, Ah see mair than a bunch o’ boays et the coarner.’

Mick pretended to be reading again. Jenny was looking back at the fire, speaking quietly.

‘Have you heard Tadger Daly singin’ at the coarner oan a summer’s nicht when he wis twinty-five? It woulda broke yer hert. A voice as clear as a bell. Or did ye see Deke Dorns when he wis eichteen cairryin’ his wee brither hame deid fae the pits? Or Eck An’erson gi’in’ his feyther a backy tae the pair hoose. Ye mind the summer ye were jist a wean? We had only Kathleen an’ you. An’ a hale squad o’ us went up the waiter fur a picnic. The boays went in the watter. Yer feyther could swim like an otter. We had a day! Talk aboot laugh. An’ it wis afore Wullie Manson had the bother wi’ his glands. Near invisible in his bathin’-suit. Ye coulda threidit him through a needle. They’re no’ jist whit they luk tae you the day.’

‘Ah hope tae Goad they’re no’! Can ye no’ see hoo stupit they’ve been a’ their days, mither? Lettin’ themselves be tramped oan? Dae they never get fed up waitin’? Can they no’ see it’s got tae chinge? Fur Ah can see it. An’ the quicker the better.’

‘Ah hope ye’re richt, son. An’ Ah’m gled ye can see it. But wherever ye’re goin’, don’t tramp oan thae men’s names tae get there. For there’s naewhere guid tae get tae by daein’ that.’

Mick said nothing. He watched her looking at the fire and he felt utterly despondent. You couldn’t change her. You couldn’t argue with her. Faced with her evidence, God wouldn’t have dared condemn them. But the quarrel wasn’t with God.

Jenny moved restlessly in her chair. The room had become oppressive, ironing not quite finished, the pit-clothes to be laid out. Tomorrow she could face them. But tonight, as sometimes happened, she had for the moment lost her faith. She couldn’t endure the demands of this room because they were final demands. This, she accepted, was as far as any of them were going. She would go on cooking and washing and scrubbing, and Conn would be in the pits till he died. They were all trapped. All they could do was wait, while the government invented the weather, visited crises on them like hurricanes, out of nowhere, never to be understood, and somebody’s son took ill and another took to the drink and one husband was carried home from the pits and another took up with a fancy woman. And the best you could do was survive.

‘Ah think Ah’ll go doon an’ see Mary fur an ‘oor.’

She liked talking to Mary Erskine. Their conversations were a coven, a gentle witchcraft of involved genealogies and esoteric anecdote and endlessly repeated names, spells for placating history. She rose and pulled a shawl over her shoulders.

‘If yer feyther comes in, tell ‘im Ah’ll no’ be long.’

She went out into the dusk of the street. It was a sad night, with a sluggish wind that nudged round her as she walked. But when she reached Mary’s there was a good fire going. The kettle was put on and the two of them sat down to talk.

Tam was drinking in Bailey’s pub and accepting a challenge to stand on his hands on a chair. Kathleen was nursing the youngest on her knee because the children had wakened crying in an empty house before she got back. She was trying not to cry herself. Angus was walking in the main street with Buzz and looking for events. Conn was laughing in Bert Crawford’s house.

Old Conn woke up and lit his pipe. He started to talk about his life with Kerr the builder. ‘A fine man,’ he was saying. Mick didn’t answer. He was reading about Russia. He loved the power he felt in the book that rested lightly and dangerously in his hands, like a time-bomb.

5

Jenny found herself dovering over her paper and snapped upright to show that she was, as always, wide awake. She tended to be embarrassed by how often she was doing that now and she glanced round quickly to check if anyone had noticed. She needn’t have worried. Instead of being self-conscious, she became engrossed in looking at the others.

They were totally preoccupied and she saw them with that strangeness just having wakened imparts, where you’re still not sure exactly where you are. They looked very strange. She remembered that Angus had only been out for an hour or so tonight. Now everybody was in. It was unusual to have everyone in the house this early in the evening, but it shouldn’t have been as unusual as it looked. Jenny felt briefly like a sane person who has discovered that sanity is a lonely state.

Angus had his shirt off and was doing exercises in his vest, watching himself dully in the mirror just under the gas-mantle. Old Conn was asleep, his mouth sagging open like a cave. Mick was crouched over a book and rocking gently with it in that way he had, as if he was nursing something. Conn was staring vaguely into the fire. Tam had a little mirror on his knee and with a small pair of scissors was setting about trying to trim the hair growing out of his nose. Jenny started to smile.

This place is like a madhoose,’ she said.

But it was a pleasant one. They were all relaxed and the atmosphere was easy. It was a time for fraternising.

‘Christ, Ah doot Ah’ve swallied a boattle o’ hair-restorer,’ Tam was saying. There’s hair growin’ oot o’ me everywhere. Ye canny see inside ma nose. Luk. It’s a’ bloody overgrown.’

‘Watch whit ye’re daein’ in there, feyther,’ Angus said. ‘Ye micht never be heard o’.’

‘Sen’ in David Livingstone,’ Conn said.

Tam snittered and then said, ‘Ooh, tae Christ! Ah nearly left maself withoot a nose tae luk oot o’.’

‘Angus!’ Mick was incredulous. ‘Whit the hell are ye daein’ that fur?’

‘You lea’e the boay alane,’ Tam said. ‘He’s developin’ ‘is brains.’

‘Naw, but imagine daein’ that efter a day’s shift in the pit. Ye canny be richt, Angus.’

‘Energy tae burn.’ Angus struck a classical pose. ‘How’s that then? Greek God in a semmet an’ drawers.’

Normal madness was quietly resumed for a time. Then Tam, angling his mirror expertly, caught a glimpse of Conn reflected in it.